


Pasodoble

by Lilith (Citrine)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fun in Spain, M/M, Mrs Hudson wants to see her boys back together, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Misses John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citrine/pseuds/Lilith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson smothered her giggles in icy martini, but Sherlock was still grinning when she raised her head. The meal was delightful, even the things she couldn’t recognise tasted wonderful.  What would Mrs Turner say if she could see her now? She had told her neighbour she was going to Eastbourne. Or John? Poor John. She imagined him sitting all alone in a grotty bedsit.  There had to be some way of getting her boys back together, back upstairs in 221B where they belonged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pasodoble

**Author's Note:**

> A break from a longer more serious story I'm writing and what happens when I watch Una Stubbs in 'Benidorm'. I hope you enjoy it.

Mrs Hudson closed the fridge door, ice rattled in the glasses as she picked them up. “But this completely obnoxious couple kept insisting that they’d met me at a swinger’s party in Middlesbrough.”

“And you’ve never been to Middlesbrough in your life.” Sherlock didn’t look up from his laptop.

“I should think not. Then when I went over to the poolside bar to get away from them this other woman thought that I was a detective, which was quite funny under the circumstances.” Mrs Hudson put one of the glasses down and patted her hair into place in front of the mirror. “At least she compared me to Helen Mirren in ‘Prime Suspect’ not to that old biddy Miss Marple. I never could abide Agatha Christie.”   She picked the glass up and put it down on the table next to Sherlock. “How’s it going, dear?”

“It isn’t,” he muttered darkly.

Wisely she said nothing, opting instead to sit opposite him with her back to the sun drenched Spanish coast.  The holiday apartment was adequate, certainly better than that awful hotel. People like that really did give the British a bad name.  At least this was nice and clean and tidy, and on the twelfth floor so that the noise wasn’t too intrusive when she was trying to sleep.

“I still haven’t got the faintest idea what we’re doing here,” she ventured after a while. “Everyone still thinks you’re dead, you know. Well, not quite everyone, I see it written on walls sometimes ‘Believe’ and ‘Sherlock’s alive’, and I think if only you knew.  It’s like they say, you can fool some of the people some of the time, but-”

“Be quiet, Mrs Hudson.”

She subsided for a minute or two until boredom and a still open wound got the better of her. “John thinks that you’re dead. It’s been dreadful for him and I feel so guilty every time he phones to check if I’m okay.  Oh, Sherlock, if you could tell me the truth why on earth couldn’t you put him out of his misery?”

Sherlock scraped his chair back, abandoning the laptop. “John isn’t like you. He wouldn’t have been content to wait and not ask questions.”

“He might have been. For you, he might have been.”  She saw darkness of regret and grief in Sherlock’s eyes in the split second before he looked away.  Mrs Hudson patted his hand. “Besides when do I ever stop asking questions?”

“When you’re asleep?” said Sherlock with a wry grin.

“My husband used to complain that I talked in my sleep.”  Mrs Hudson sighed. “Whatever are you going to do about John, dear?”

“Once I wrap things up here I’ll be able to come home in a few weeks and I’ll go to see him…I’ll talk to him…and I’ll make him understand.”  He looked at her bleakly. “I know that things may never be like they were before.”

“They might be better, if you’re honest about your feelings.”  She wanted him to be happy.

“From what I hear from Mycroft it may already be too late for that.” Sherlock picked up the glass. His hands were tanned, but there was a white line where his shirt cuffs peeled back. He never had been one for sun bathing.  The truth was he didn’t belong here at all; Baker Street with the cold, curling fogs and the tempestuous summer days was where he ought to be, without him there was always  a piece missing from the puzzle of life.

“Well, I for one will be jolly glad to have you back.  That old house has been so empty without you getting under my feet and blowing things up.”  A chill thought occurred to her, the fear of being robbed at the eleventh hour. Mrs Hudson pointed at his laptop. “Is what you’re doing very dangerous?”

“Do you think that I would have brought you out here if it was?”  Sherlock regarded her with exasperated affection. “It’s only a mopping up job now. I just need you to go to that investment broker, act stupid and get swindled, then the Spanish police can arrest him. He’ll be deported and Mycroft’s people can pick him up at Heathrow.  There isn’t any risk, well, not much anyway.  Our man’s obese and asthmatic, in the extremely unlikely event that he susses you out just plead ignorance, a stranger offered you five hundred pounds to go in and make the investment.  You know nothing about anything.”

“That’s true enough.”

“Trust me, the least you know the better and don’t be a heroine.”

“What at my age?”  Mrs Hudson laughed. “Mind you that woman at the bar told me I looked nice and that couple of wife swappers seemed quite taken with me.”

“It must be your lucky day,” said Sherlock sardonically.

Mrs Hudson held up her crossed fingers. “Here’s hoping.”

*

It went without a hitch. The wealthy, bewildered widow invested forty thousand pounds in a non-existent residential complex in Seville. Then the Spanish police moved in and made the arrest while she and Sherlock watched from the street corner.

He gave her a brief hug. “Are you all right?”

“Never better.” Her eyes twinkled. “It was fun, perhaps I should have been an actress.”

“You would have been good at it.”

“Well, it’s too late now.”

“Oh it’s never too late and Miss Marple had nothing on you.” Sherlock watched with a satisfied smirk on his face as the fraudster was bundled into the police car.

Mrs Hudson wasn’t smiling. “I’d like to think that this is the finish, but I know that it isn’t over yet.” 

“It is as far as you’re concerned,” said Sherlock. “Enjoy the dubious delights of Benidorm, fly home in the morning and don’t worry about anything.”

There was no need for him to remind her not to tell anyone, they both knew that she wouldn’t breathe a word of it. She glanced around the sunlit street. “This is nice, not like that awful hotel, but I don’t speak a word of the language and…it all seems a bit flat now, a bit of an anti-climax really.”

“Are you hungry?” asked Sherlock.

“Not much, just a bit peckish.” The heat had plastered her hair to the nape of her neck under her white sun hat. “I could do with a drink through, and a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Let’s go back to the apartment then.  Once you’re ready we’ll celebrate your success with dinner in one of the local restaurants.”  Sherlock grinned. “I know just the place and the owner owes me a favour.”

She laughed. “You really are incorrigible. Do you ever pay for your food?”

“Not when I can avoid it.”   Sherlock winked broadly at her.

*

There was only a last fiery rim of sunset on the horizon and only the dregs of ice and martini at the bottom of her class. Mrs Hudson might have been enjoying herself if only it hadn’t been for the dress. What on earth had possessed her to buy it, much less wear it?  She smoothed her hand over the wide polka dot skirt. It had reminded her of her youth, of the new look, coffee bars and teddy boys, but now she felt seriously out of place among all the bikinis and sarongs.

“Perhaps I should nip back up the apartment and get changed,” she said doubtfully.  

“What on earth for?” asked Sherlock. He lounged in his chair with his long legs stretched out and his white shirt gleaming like an escapee from a washing powder advert.  Hawaiian shirts and t-shirts weren’t his style, and he didn’t give a damn about blending in with the crowd. “What’s wrong with the clothes you’ve got on?”

“I feel as if I’m in fancy dress,” she confessed.

“And the obvious answer to that is…”  Sherlock leant forward to whisper in her ear. “Anyone would fancy you in that dress.”

 Mrs Hudson giggled and slapped him playfully on the forearm. “Maybe, if I was forty years younger and you weren’t the other way inclined.”  She ran her fingers down the cold, smooth surface of the glass. “What are you going to do about John?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock sighed. “It really depends on what he chooses to do about me once he knows that I’m not dead.”

“Once he gets over the shock that it, he’s bound to be livid with you at first.”  Mrs Hudson shivered. “You can’t imagine what it was like, the press wouldn’t leave us alone and he was so broken.  He wouldn’t even stay in the flat without you, but I…it was my house and I couldn’t run away.  Everyone kept asking me how John was, of course most of them thought you were a couple and I was only the landlady, still it would have been nice…that girl Molly from the hospital was the only one who ever asked.  Then, when Mycroft came to see me I really could have murdered you myself.”  She smiled sadly. “I only had to endure it for two weeks. John’s spent the past two years believing that you’re dead. That’s an awful lot of heartbreak to forgive, so don’t go charging in like a bull in a china shop.”

“I’ll try not to.”  Sherlock kissed her lightly on the cheek. “No more John, not tonight. Do you want another drink?”

“Why don’t I get them? I need to nip to the ladies anyway and I’ll stop off at the bar on my way back.”  He was right, the dark memories and the difficult decisions would keep until tomorrow.   In twenty-hour hours she’d be back in Baker Street with her crossword and slippers, but tonight she might as well enjoy herself.

There was a crowd milling around the bar and her head was full of thoughts and memories so she didn’t see the Middlesbrough swingers until it was too late to avoid them.  They were perched on bar stools ogling the passers-by and she found herself jammed in next to the woman who tapped her on the arm.  “That’s a nice young man you’ve got there, ever so handsome.  I was just saying that he must be very expensive.”

Dear god, surely they couldn’t think that… Mrs Hudson did a demented goldfish impression for a minute and then she recovered her wits. “Yes, he is actually, more than you could ever afford and he charges by the hour, so if you’ll excuse me.”  She grabbed the glasses and fled, with dignity and with her head held high.

“What’s so funny?” asked Sherlock the second she sat down giggling merrily.

“Oh, you won’t believe it, that couple from Middlesbrough…”  She found herself blushing under his curious stare. “They actually think that you…that I’ve paid for your company…services…oh heavens to Betsey…” She rested her elbow on the metal table and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I told them that you charged by the hour.”

His shout of laughter turned several heads.  “You’re a wicked woman, Martha Hudson.”

“Well, they deserved it and…I am sorry, dear.”  They were both chuckling away. “Honestly I am.”

“Stop laughing then.”

Mrs Hudson smothered her giggles in icy martini, but Sherlock was still grinning when she raised her head. The meal was delightful, even the things she couldn’t recognise tasted wonderful.  What would Mrs Turner say if she could see her now? She had told her neighbour she was going to Eastbourne. Or John? Poor John. She imagined him sitting all alone in a grotty bedsit.  There had to be some way of getting her boys back together, back upstairs in 221B where they belonged.  “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’ll give John a call when I get back, just to find out how he is, where he is.”

“I’ll find him,” said Sherlock quietly.

“Well, of course you will, dear, you could find a needle in a haystack.”

He smiled, banishing the shadows. “Shall I tell you everything you never wanted to know about the wife swappers?” For her, and her alone, he made a game of his brilliance, showing off with acid and cutting observations on their fellow diners.  “And as to those Flamenco dancers just warming up over there-”

“Oh, stop it, I like the dancers so don’t spoil it by telling me that he beats his wife.”

“She doesn’t even beat hers,” said Sherlock with a smirk.

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Mrs Hudson wondered if he and John would ever get married. She’d have to buy a new hat if they did and learn to knit if they adopted a baby. Now wouldn’t that be nice?  That fantasy was interrupted by some wild Spanish music.  The dancers were good, not top notch, but surprisingly talented for entertaining tourists.  She watched with a mixture of admiration and envy, remembering how she had once loved to dance.  It wasn’t beyond her even now and her foot tapped in perfect time to the music. 

She clapped harder than anyone when they finished their routine, while Sherlock merely watched with a hint of a smile. The band played on, music that was full of ocean waves and storm clouds.  The antics of the drunken holidaymakers didn’t do it justice.

Sherlock touched her arm. “Do you want to get your money’s worth?”

“What?” she was back in goldfish mode.

He grinned and gestured at the dance floor. “Shall we show them how it’s done?”

“I suppose we couldn’t do much worse.”  Her heart was beating with a giddy excitement and she ignored the little warning voice that said she was too old to make a fool of herself in public.  She stood up and her shoes were shiny red, just made for dancing, like Dorothy through the looking glass into Oz. No, that was two stories mixed up. “That martini must have been stronger than I thought.”

“That’s as good an excuse as any other.” Sherlock took her hand and led her out onto the dance floor, weaving through the revellers until they reached centre stage.

The music was España Cañí and the dance was the pasodoble; it was breathless and foolish, and wonderful. They were good too, good enough for many of the other dancers to draw back to watch them perform.  There was applause at the end and even a few flowers were thrown onto the ground.  She scooped up a couple of roses and took Sherlock’s arm as they headed for the bar.

Sometimes there was something to be said for being a silly old woman.  Although she would have to tell Mrs Turner that she’d had a nice time down in Eastbourne.  Not that she’d danced to gipsy music under a starlit sky with a handsome young man.  That was another secret to keep. She squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He handed her another drink. “Let me know how John is.”

“Of course I will, dear.”  Her smile faded. “It’s a  good job that he couldn’t see us five minutes ago, having a high old time while he’s still grieving for you. He’d go bonkers.”

“I’ll be back soon and I’ll explain everything to John.”

She didn’t point out that it wasn’t simply about explanations.  Deep down, in the heart he so often pretended not to have, Sherlock was aware that the damage was irreparable.  However laudable his motives might have been John might never be able to forgive the deception. And she had played her part in that deception.

“I’ve lied to him so many times.” Mrs Hudson held up her thumb and forefinger a tiny space apart. “And you don’t know how often I’ve come this close to telling him the truth.”

“I’ll tell him,” Sherlock insisted. “I swear I will.” He was wilfully missing the point.

“It’s just that…” She stood up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You need a shave, you’re getting all stubbly.”

Needless to say he understood everything that she hadn’t said and for a moment his regret was unmasked.  He hugged her and she could not honestly have said who was comforting who.  They smiled at one another and clinked their glasses together.

“Don’t be a stranger for too long,” said Mrs Hudson.

“I’ll come home as soon as I can,” promised Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson had to be content with that and with the rhythm of a gipsy violin echoing her memory as the plane took off.   Sherlock hadn’t given her clear indication when he would see her again, so she’d make the beds and air the rooms, and wait. Eventually he’d turn up again like the proverbial bad penny and the whole three-ring circus of TV crews on the doorstep and bullet holes in the walls would start all over again.

She was quite looking forward to it.


End file.
